


The Seamstress

by WickedlyEmma



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: (emotionally at least), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Romance, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Mommy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedlyEmma/pseuds/WickedlyEmma
Summary: You work as a seamstress and you meet an incredibly demanding customer.Or,The Handler needs Someone to make all of her dresses.
Relationships: The Handler (Umbrella Academy)/Reader
Comments: 117
Kudos: 219





	1. Satin

You work in a small brick storefront, one of the ones built in the gap between two larger buildings: like a bridge from a generic clothing monolith and an Arby’s. You don’t mind it. Sometimes it can feel cramped, but you prefer to consider your store cozy rather than claustrophobic.

Whatever helps you sleep at night.

You pluck your needle and thread out of a pile of scraps you haven’t yet managed to clean up and continue hand-sewing the hem of your current project. Taffeta makes for tedious stitches. You hate not being able to rip out and undo.

The bell on the doorknob chimes as someone comes in.

“Hello!” You greet pleasantly, “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, just looking.”

A blond woman with perfect waves and a bright polka dot dress walks in. The dress is a basic fit and flare with cream lace trim along the neckline, reminiscent of a 1950s housewife. Actually, you think as she saunters closer to the counter, it looks genuine. It has all the hand stitching and technique you are used to seeing in vintage clothing in museums. She either got it from a seamstress who knows what they are doing, or it’s a family heirloom that’s been taken excellent care of through the years. Either way, you’d like to meet the seamstress who made it.

You realize belatedly that you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time. Oops.

“I’d be happy to help you find anything today, there are some pre-made products near the front and some binders with examples of my work on the table.”

The woman smiles at you and it makes your skin itch. You don’t know why.

“Glad to hear it,” she says. She moves away from the counter and you feel like you can breathe.

Weird.

You refocus on sewing your hem, keeping half an eye on the woman wandering the storefront. You can tell she’s not serious about looking at the selection of basic dresses and aprons you keep out. She takes a passing glance towards your attempts at hats before choosing to linger by your binders. You keep your more specific work in there. She goes through them at her own pace, tracing manicured nails over the laminated sketches and final photos you’ve put together. You like to think that after this many years of doing the same job, you have a good handle on what customers want. $10 to none, she’s looking at fashion through the ages section.

“Your work is lovely,” she says after a moment.

You plaster on a smile. “Thank you, I’m glad you think so.”

“I’m especially fond of your evening ware,” she comments, “Do you do a lot of vintage clothes?”

Called it. Well, not that it’s that much of an accomplishment when she’s walking around like a 1950s housewife’s wet dream.

“Yes ma’am, I even do my best to use vintage fabric and trims whenever possible. It makes up a large portion of my body of work.”

She hums. “It’s what you do best. You have a spark.” She unclips a couple of pages from your binder and tucks them under her arm.

You duck your head. “You’re kind to say so.”

“I mean it,” she continues, as she saunters back up to the counter, “In fact, I would like to commission you.”

Oh dear. “I’m so sorry ma’am, but I’m afraid my queue is booked up. If you’d like, you can check back in a few weeks. I’ll probably have room then.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t throw a tantrum, or even look disappointed like most others would have. Instead, her grin grows as she leans over the counter. The weight of her oppressive presence makes you back up. Even now, you’re not sure why you’re wary of her. (But you’ve lived long enough to know you should listen to your instincts).

“Oh darling,” she says with a condescending smile, one hand digging in her clutch purse, “I don’t think you understand. Money is absolutely no issue.”

“It’s not just the money, ma’am. It’s not fair to my other client—” You cut off when the woman drops the single largest wad of cash you’ve ever seen on your counter. It’s in all fifties.

“I think you get the picture.” Her voice is sugary, but you hear the underlying threat in her voice. You swallow around the stone in your throat. No one has that much cash on them for no reason (especially now, in the digital age). You don’t want to know the reason. You force your eyes to look back up at her. Her eyes stare piercingly into yours and you realize they’re the palest shade of green.

“Yes ma’am,” you say. Your voice is small. You turn away to check your calendar just so you can break eye contact. You can probably fit her in before the rest of your projects. Just stay up a little later in the evenings. It won’t make much of a difference, not really; just a dress should be fine. You steel your spine and straighten up. You even manage to look her in the eye. “What kind of dress were you thinking of ordering?” You ask through a plastered on smile. She smiles in return.

“Well, I was actually thinking of a couple.”

“That may not be…” She turns to look at you and you cut yourself off. “That should be fine,” you correct yourself.

“Perfect!” She claps her hands together, “I was thinking of these three designs. What kind of fabric samples do you have?” She lays your binder clippings on the table and points them out to you.

You bring her to your board of fabric squares. She taps her lips as she thinks, smudging red lipstick. You would tell her if you thought she wouldn’t take your head off for it. She takes a long while to pick out fabric. Usually, you wouldn’t mind, but all you want is for her to leave your little shop. In the end, she picks out a floral satin, blue gingham cotton, and a pale gray silk.

Now comes the part you don’t really want to do.

“Will you be available for me to take your measurements today?” You ask.

She smiles, sharp teeth under lipstick.

“Of course, sugar.”

It’s not that you’re uncomfortable taking people’s measurements. You’re a professional. It’s just that you don’t want to get any closer to the woman standing in your shop. You swallow your discomfort.

“If you’d just follow me,” you hear yourself say.

You lead the woman to the back and grab your tape measure. You look at her dress critically.

“Generally, it’s better when people wear loose-fitting clothes for measurements.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh, will this make it difficult? I can change out of it, if you’d prefer.”

“That might be best,” you say apologetically. You step out to give her privacy and lean against the wall. You let out a deep breath and wonder what you did to deserve this. You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous, she hasn’t done anything more than be a tad more demanding than your usually clientele. But the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up. You know better than to ignore them.

When you step back in the room, the woman is wearing nothing but genuine 50’s style lingerie, complete with a bustier and garters. You blink and make a conscious effort to ignore it.

“Alright, I’m going to start from your neck and work my way down, will that be okay?”

“Peachy,” she says with a lazy grin. You swallow and get close enough to her that you can smell her perfume. Lavender.

Her grin widens when you wrap the tape measure around her neck, just shy of tight enough to indent the skin. You mark the measurement down in your notebook. Next you take upper arm measurements, then waist. Your fingertips skim the black lace stretched over her skin on accident. You can admit to yourself that this woman is beautiful. She knows it too. She stands shameless in the middle of the room as you work around her. You get the feeling she would be just as shameless completely nude.

You get down to the final measurements and you kneel on the ground by her feet. You deliberately don’t look up at her as you take her inseam. The air turns heavy and cold. You know if you were to look above the floor and your notebook, you would see her calculating eyes watching you.

You’re grateful when you mark down her last measurements and you can back away from her.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” you say, still avoiding her eyes. You leave the room before she can say anything in response.

You’re halfway into plugging her measurements into an excel spreadsheet when she breezes past you, once again clothed with fresh lipstick.

“I’ll be here to pick my order up in two weeks, I trust that will be enough time?”

You want to protest and say you need nearly triple that. Then she arches an eyebrow and you think better of it.

“Of course,” you end up saying, “Can I have a name for the order?”

“The Handler.” She scribbles something down on a piece of paper and uses it to blot her lipstick. The resulting stain doesn’t manage to obscure the phone number written there.

“Call me once they’re done,” she says with a self-satisfied smile. She leaves before you even know what’s happening, flimsy printer paper still clutched in your hand.

“What the fuck was that?” You say aloud to an empty shop. The shop doesn’t respond. You sit down and it feels like the room is shifting around you. Your eyes fall on the wad of cash left for you on your counter. You debate whether or not to count it.

Who are you fooling, of course you’re going to. You’re too nosy to wait. You unfold the neat bundle of bills and rifle through them.

“What the _fuck_ ,” you repeat when you finally count out the wad of cash the Handler left you. It’s several thousand dollars. Your skin crawls and for the first time since she arrived you let yourself imagine what kind of person carries that kind of money.

Best case scenario, she’s a bank robber.

Worst case….

You flip the sign three hours too early and close up for the day. Your hands are still shaking by the time you make it to your car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the chapter! I've discovered my niche :-)
> 
> If you like my writing & wanna talk to me, I'm on tumblr @wickedlyemma


	2. Silk

The Handler, despite your first impression, turns out to be a fairly average customer. Well, excluding the exorbitant amount of money she pays you for each successive order, and the constantly revolving parade of men picking up her dresses for her. You genuinely do not want to know what she does for a living. You don’t think you would mind having people to do everything for you. (Is she a mob boss? You wonder. That’s kinda hot). You’re not sure how you would feel about being in close contact with a mob boss. You suppose there are worse things to happen to someone. (Like being killed for being tangentially connected to a mob boss).

A few customers come in the morning, browsing through your rapidly dwindling stock up front. Between the Handler and all your other orders, you just haven’t had the time. Even cutting back on other commissions, you’re still spending half the night sewing intricate dresses. You genuinely aren’t sure when you last sewed something that wasn’t an evening gown.

Maybe you should try to expand.

The door rings as another person comes in.

“Hello!” You say brightly, not looking up from your current project, “What can I do for— oh, it’s you.”

“No need to sound so disappointed,” the Handler says.

“I’m not,” you say truthfully. Dread-filled would be a better word. The curve of her mouth lifts into a smirk. The Handler is wearing one of your creations, a deep cut coral A-line that does wonders for her cleavage. You analyze it for fit and discover it’s nearly perfect.

She steps further into your shop and her grin rapidly fades as she catches sight of your two other customers

“Get out,” she says and the two women look at her, bewildered.

“Excuse me?” One of them says.

“I’m sorry, was I not clear? Leave this store and never come back or else I will cut all four valve stems on your tires,” the Handler says pleasantly. You get the feeling she’s not joking.

“Uh,” you object, “You’re welcome to stay, ma’am.”

“No you’re not,” the Handler says with a smile. The two women leave with disgusted expressions and you bury your head in your hands. Your Yelp rating better not go down. The bell chimes as the door closes.

“Was that necessary?” You groan. You probably shouldn’t be this blunt. Mob boss, you remind yourself.

“I wanted privacy,” the Handler says primly.

“At the cost of my business? You know this is how I make my money, right?”

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about that soon anyway.”

That’s ominous. You decide not to ask anymore questions.

“I have your order in the back, but it’s not packaged up yet,” you apologize, “I can get it for you if you’d be okay with waiting.”

“Oh that’s alright,” she says dismissively, “I actually came in today to request your presence at my house this evening, you can just bring it then.”

“Um,” you say.

“I have some business to discuss with you, I’m sure you’ll be able to make it.”

You mentally run through every excuse in the book that you could give her and realize there’s no way you’re getting out of this.

“Of course,” you say.

“Splendid. See you at seven sharp.”

She writes down her address on a slip of paper and leaves it on the counter. You take it and force a smile. At least you didn’t have any plans tonight.

“See you then,” you say.

She gives this little chuckle and taps you on the nose.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she says, amused, “See you tonight! Ta ta.”

You spend the entirety of your shift mentally dreading your coming evening. You help the few customers who come in, even managing to score a future commission. Unfortunately for you, you can only take one. The Handler is really messing up your sewing schedule. Maybe you’ll be able to talk to her about that tonight. You don’t have high hopes for whatever ‘business’ she wants to talk about it. You predict more sleepless nights in your future.

Thankfully, you’re able to finish a few orders and you’ll be able to get them packaged up tomorrow. You’re horrendously grateful to your color-coded planner right about now. It’s unfortunate that the Handler is going to eat into your sewing time this evening. (You won’t even try to block out an ‘end time’ for whatever nonsense she’s up to tonight).

You close the shop right at six. Your keys jangle in your grip, knuckles white. You really don’t want to go to the address neatly written on your slip of paper, but you know you have to.

You don’t really want to know the consequences otherwise.

Your car rumbles as you start it and you plug the address into your GPS. It’s not that far away (thankfully), but soon the tall buildings that you’re used to start to disappear, only to be replaced by the ever growing presence of trees. It would be calming if you didn’t dread where you would end up.

It also seems like a horror movie set.

Eventually, you turn up a mile-long driveway to a mansion sitting in the middle of the wood. You genuinely start to wonder if she’s planning on murdering you. ‘Mansion in the Woods’ seems like kind of a rip off. You stop the car and stare up in awe at the massive building in front of you. Tall columns and spirals lead up stone steps. The effect is extravagantly ridiculous. You love it in the same way you love seeing ornate renaissance paintings in a museum— wonderful to look at, less so to have. A part of you wishes you knew anything about architecture if just to know what to call the style it’s built in. Either way, it’s beautiful. And more expensive than anything you could ever afford, even if you worked for three lifetimes. You don’t envy having to take care of a house this enormous.

Not for the first time and definitely not the last, you wonder just how much money the Handler has.

You get out of the car, gravel crunching underfoot, and pop the trunk. You sling her array of dresses over your shoulder and ring the doorbell. Chimes ring inside and you stand there, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. The plastic bags covering the dresses rustle in the breeze.

“You’re early,” The Handler comments as she opens the door, “Come in.”

She steps aside and you obey, cheap shoes squeaking on the marble floor. The Handler closes the door behind you. She’s wearing a long silk robe and you suspect nothing underneath. It looks soft.

“Where do you want these?” You ask, gesturing to the bagged dresses slung over your shoulder.

“Oh, over there is fine,” she says. She waves a hard towards a ridiculously ornate coat rack in the foyer. The piece alone looks like it costs more than a year’s worth of your rent.

“Excellent,” you say as you obey, “Well, if that will be all—”

“Stay for dinner,” she says, placid smile plastered on her face, “We have business to discuss and I have enough for two.” You want to tell her whatever business she wants to discuss can go in an email, but you value your life.

“I already ate,” you lie.

“Then just a drink.”

You’re not getting out of this, are you? You look at the Handler’s overwhelmingly self-satisfied expression. Nope, definitely not.

“Just a drink,” you agree.

She smiles and you get the feeling you’ve just made a grave mistake. You’re probably right.

The Handler leads you into a sitting room. All the furniture is strangely dustless. You cannot even imagine the work that goes into keeping a house this enormous clean. You feel like you can barely be bothered to clean your kitchen most days. Oh God, you realize, you forgot to clean out your coffee pot this morning. Ew.

“Pick your poison,” The Handler says and you realize you’ve been lost in thought for much too long.

You really don’t want anything strong. You still have to drive back home.

“What do you have?” You ask.

“Oh, everything, my dear. Long Island ice tea, Gin Fizz, Bloody Mary, Vodka Cranberry—”

“That actually sounds good,” You interrupt.

She looks at you with approval. “A woman after my own heart,” she comments as she mixes your drink. She makes herself a martini and gestures for you to sit on the settee. You obey, and she settles down next to you and hands you your drink. You take a sip that turns into a gulp on accident. Oops.

“I know you’re wondering why I invited you over,” The Handler says. She doesn’t continue.

“… After all of your dramatics: yes, a bit.”

“Mouthy,” she comments. She takes a long drink of her martini before continuing. “Tell me,” she says, “How did you learn to sew?”

Immediately bile rises in your throat. It shouldn’t, you’re used to this question. Admittedly, you usually lie.

You get the feeling you can’t get away with that this time.

“I learned from my mother,” you answer eventually.

“How sweet,” the Handler comments and you twitch violently. You empty your glass and she takes it from you. Your hands are shaking as she pours you another— too wary to tell her otherwise. You immediately put it on the end table when she hands it to you. You don’t touch it again. “I would have expected you to have gone to school for it,” the Handler continues.

You shake your head. “Fashion design is too hard to break into, and school was expensive. I’m happy where I am.”

“Are you?”

You eyebrows draw together. “What do you mean?” If this turns into an existential discussion, you might actually just leave, fuck the consequences. There’s only so much weirdness you can take.

She taps her finger on the rim of her glass before setting it aside.

“How would you feel about closing your business and only working for me?”

Well that isn’t what you expected to hear.

“Excuse me?”

“Close your storefront, you don’t need to get rid of it completely if you don’t wish, but from now on you only do orders for me,” she says pleasantly, like all of this is normal, “A stipend will be provided for you, of course, and you can use it to create a studio here. I already have a few rooms set aside for you on the off-chance you’d like to live here as well.”

The room tilts and you feel dizzy. Belatedly, you remember you shouldn’t trust the Handler. You hope she didn’t spike your drink with anything. (But no, what you’re feeling is more reminiscent of vertigo than Rohypnol).

“Ma’am,” you start and don’t know where to go afterwards, “I— I’m sorry, but… I couldn’t afford—”

“Tell me, how much do you make at your little shop?”

“What? I don’t—”

“Just a ball park, come on,” she cajoles, edging closer to you on the settee. You want to back away, but the arm already presses into your back.

You give her an estimate (higher than it should be, but your brain isn’t working at its maximum capacity right now) and she grins.

“I’ll pay you five times that on the first of the month for the privilege of being your only client. I’ll take care of you.”

Your mind races. By her own admission, you wouldn’t have to close the shop completely, you could still afford rent for your little building and your apartment at the same time. So if you do choose to do this and it goes badly, there wouldn’t really be any major consequences. You weigh the benefits in your mind. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” the Handler says and you can’t think of a way to say no without it sounding like a lie.

“… Yes.” What do you have to lose?

The Handler grins and you get a drop in your stomach as the room tilts away from you.

“Wonderful!” She exclaims, “Let me show you where you’ll be working.”

You want to protest and say you’ll be fine working at your apartment, but you get the feeling the Handler wouldn’t take it well. She leads you on a convoluted route through the tall hallways until you come to a stop at a plain door.

“This is your suite,” she says. You can’t even respond, too in awe of the series of high-ceilinged rooms that await you. When the Handler said she would take care of you, she wasn’t kidding. The inside contains three separate rooms with tall, deep windows and wide planked floors. All the rooms are empty, but it’s already double the size of your entire shop.

“There’s a bedroom off the hall that way and you can utilize the rest of the space as fabric storage and your own personal studio. There is, of course, a bathroom as well if you would like to take a look.” You do, and if you didn’t harbor a deep-seated suspicion towards the Handler, the claw foot tub and marble counters would propel you to confess your love to her.

“Ma’am—”

“Handler,” she corrects with a pleasant smile.

“Ms. Handler,” you say, “This is too much.”

She cocks her head. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I find it all very necessary for my favorite seamstress.”

You flush and continue anyway. “Is a bedroom necessary? I won’t be sleeping here.”

You don’t like the smile on her face. “Of course, dear. It’s just in case. I’ll write a check so you can outfit it with furniture to your liking. Just tell me when you’ll have the furniture delivered and set up, so I can make arrangements.”

“This is too much,” you protest.

She shrugs. “It’s not my money.”

“You need to not say things like that.”

“Why?”

You pause. “Because I enjoy having my plausible deniability,” you say bluntly.

She grins sharp.

“I knew I liked you,” she says, “My room is just down this way if you ever need me.” You want to ask under what circumstances you’d need her, but you figure you won’t like the answer.

You’re not sure what to say. “Thank you,” you eventually settle on.

“Of course,” she says, “Anything for my little seamstress.”

You shiver and realize it’s getting late.

“I should probably go, shouldn’t I?”

“Is driving such a good idea?”

“I had one drink, Handler,” you say dryly, “It’s not going to impair my driving.”

She looks like she wants to insist that you stay. Her body blocks the doorway. You don’t know how you would say no to that. You’re glad she doesn’t insist.

“Alright,” she eventually agrees, backing away, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

You can breathe.

She leads you back through the winding halls. Your sense of direction is going to have to get used to this if you’re going to be here often. (Finding your way around isn’t one of your strong suits).

“Can I ask you something?” You ask when she brings you to the front door. She stops, doorknob in hand as the cool evening breeze blows in. It’s already getting dark.

“Of course,” she says, head tilted to the side.

“This is a lot of effort to go through for custom vintage-wear.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Is there a question in that?”

“Why?”

The Handler looks at you for a moment and you get the feeling she briefly intended to say something different from what she does. “Too much money,” she says, “And an appreciation for your work.”

You know that’s the most information you’re going to get out of her. You let it go.

“Thank you,” you say politely.

She smiles in response.

“Oh!” She says, “I almost forgot.” She pulls an envelope out of the pocket of her robe. “Here you are. This should be enough to cover furniture expenses. My personal number is enclosed as well.”

You take it and flush. “Thank you.” You don’t open it.

“I should be the one thanking you,” she comments, edging so close to you that you have to tilt your head up to look at her. She’s still only wearing that silk robe. She has to be doing this on purpose, you think.

“Goodnight, ma’am.”

“Handler,” she corrects.

“Handler.”

She grins. “So sweet,” she says, brushing a finger against your cheek. For a moment, you think she’s going to try to kiss you and your heart jolts (out of fear or anticipation, you’re not sure). But luckily, she doesn’t.

“Goodnight,” she finally says and steps aside. You escape out the door and beeline for your car. You throw one last look behind you and see her silhouette watching from the doorway.

You get in your car and slump against the seat. She watches as you pull away and you feel her eyes on you long after you hit the main road. You speed on the way home on accident and somehow make it home in one piece.

Your apartment is dark when you get inside and you click on the lights. You toss the Handler’s envelope on your entry table and pad into the kitchen. You wash the coffeepot.

This evening did not go as anticipated. Then again, you think wryly, that seems to be the trend with the Handler.

It’s only after you eat and get ready for bed that you let yourself open the Handler’s envelope and the number written on the check makes you want to vomit.

Yeah, you think, the Handler is definitely a mob boss.

God, what the fuck have you done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one guy friend I have told me he Also thinks the Handler is smokin 😌😌😌 #Validation. Anyway, I want a sugar mommy and this fic is my way of vicariously living my ideal life


	3. Tulle

You go a few weeks without seeing the Handler. You think maybe she’s giving you time to finish your other orders. Or maybe she just forgot about you. Either way, you don’t mind. You spend nearly a week just browsing for furniture. You make a deliberate point to avoid Ikea. Your new studio won’t have any shitty tables you have to put together yourself— you’ll have study antique benches and wire baskets. Dark colors and clean surfaces. You wonder if the Handler would let you paint the walls. (You realize you may be going overboard when you’re half an hour deep into Lowe’s paint mixing page).

You still order a bed frame— you were going to refuse on principle to buy bedroom furniture before you faced the reality of your sewing habits. You’d prefer to pass out on a bed than a scrap-covered floor. Or at least a futon; you’re getting too old to sleep on hardwood anymore.

You only have a few orders left to finish. Finishing months’ worth of orders in a few weeks was daunting. Your fingers are paying the price. You may actually be on track to developing carpal tunnel (or so your doctor warns you). The shop is closed today and you spend your day sewing an A-line wedding dress for a very lovely woman. She called back again this week, asking about bridesmaid dresses. You think of the money and wonder for a moment if you could keep the Handler’s deal and keep your store open. You paste a smile on and politely decline without a firm reason why. You haven’t told anyone you’re closing (still, maybe, unsure that it’s happening at all).

Even you don’t know why you’re going along with this.

You could say it’s the extra twenty grand a month, she’s offering you. It’s enough to open up a new shop in the middle of the city, one that doesn’t smell like grease and where you could hire professional help. Maybe even start selling commercially.

It’s not that you’re greedy, you think. But the years spent keeping your head carefully below the clouds has taken its toll. You don’t need the money. Not really. (But wouldn’t it be nice to get what you want instead of just what you need?)

You get the base of a wedding dress put together. Your sewing machine squeaks dangerously.

“Can you be quiet?” You ask it. It refuses.

You roll your eyes and push the fabric through moving teeth, a reflection of an action you’ve performed a thousand times before. Your needle takes this moment to snap in half. Utter betrayal.

“Fucking Christ,” you mutter under your breath.

You’re halfway through changing the needle when your cell phone rings. You pick up.

“Hello? Who is this?” You ask absently, jamming the phone between your chin and shoulder.

“Hello, darling. It’s been a while,” The Handler says.

What the fuck. “How did you get this number?”

The Handler makes a polite humming sound. “We live in the modern age, dear, nothing is that hard to find.”

You blink upwards at your apartment ceiling and regret your life choices for the third time today. “Wonderful,” you say dryly, shifting the phone to your hard, “What can I do for you?”

“I was intending to request your presence tonight if you’re available.”

You are. “I’ll have to check my calendar,” you lie, “What do you need?”

“All of your furniture has arrived and been set up,” The Handler’s cordial voice says, “You’re welcome to come organize it as you see fit. I also have some ideas for my next commission.”

“I see…” You say, “I should be free in the evening.”

“Excellent! See you at seven.” She hangs up the phone and you rub your temples.

“Well,” you say to yourself, “There goes the rest of my day.”

You finish the bodice just in time to go to the Handler’s. You don’t bring most of your supplies; extra scissors and an old iron, along with your notebooks. Enough to get started, you suppose.

The drive goes by quickly. You barely even need to use your GPS.

The Handler opens the door the minute you pull in the driveway. She’s not wearing one of your creations, surprisingly. It’s a 50s style midnight blue evening gown in velvet. You wonder if she actually dresses like this all the time or if it’s a show she’s putting on for you. (You can’t imagine not spending the day in your pajamas whenever possible. Ironic for an evening-ware seamstress).

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she says.

“Of course, ma’am.”

She tuts. “What did I say?”

“Handler,” you apologize.

She smiles. “Much better.”

Her arms wrap around you as you step inside. Goosebumps erupt in her wake. She closes the door behind you.

“Is this really all you brought?” The Handler says. Her arm drops from your shoulders. You kind of wish it would stay.

“I use most of my supplies every day,” you explain, “This is all I could spare.”

She eyes it critically. “Well. I guess it’s a good thing I expected this.”

Your forehead wrinkles. You don’t like the sound of that.

She leads you through the winding hallways again, but this time you have some idea of where you’re going. As much as you admire the architecture in a fellow-artisan kind of way, this house is ridiculous. You know that even if you had all the money in the world, there is no way in hell you’d ever live in a mansion this enormous. It just seems so pointless. Not to mention wasteful.

Ah, maybe your upbringing is shining through.

“I had the movers just place the furniture where they could. If you don’t like the configuration, obviously you can change it.”

“Oh my God,” you say, in awe. Your eyes sweep right past the pine shelves and antique work tables you picked out to the prodigious collection of fabric the Handler has stacked along the wall. There might actually be more fabric in here than a Joann’s. Well, maybe not one of the enormous ones, but at least more fabric than a like, shitty Joann’s. You reach out to feel it.

It’s better quality too.

“Handler,” you say, eyes sweeping over the rolling carts you picked out, filled with thread and zippers and buttons, “This is too much.”

“I really don’t know what you expected when I said I wanted you as my personal seamstress,” she says dryly, “But I meant it.”

“I know you—” You cut off at the look on the Handler’s face.

“Darling, you don’t have an especially good poker face.” She sidles up closer to you, too close for comfort or not close enough, “When I say something, generally I mean it.”

“I know,” you lie.

“Do you?” She stares at you for a moment, calculating. “Did you think I forgot about you?”

You’re silent. She takes that as an answer.

“Oh darling,” she says, “You’re not getting away that easily.”

She lingers in your space and gives a sharp grin. She’s not touching you, but the hairs on the back of your neck raise and you’re a second away from screaming if just to release the tension when she backs away.

“Let me show you the bedroom,” she hums. You breathe in relief. You set the supplies you brought one a table and follow her.

She leads you into the high-ceilinged room she’s set up for you. You recognize the dark wood of the bed frame you chose. You had planned to bring over extra linens, but of course the Handler has outdone you. Your fingers gloss over the silk sheets she’s chosen in brilliant viridian.

“Handler, this is too much for a room I probably won’t use,” you admit. The duvet is feather soft.

“Better to be safe than sorry, my dear,” The Handler chirps with a self-satisfied grin. You can see why. She left no stone unturned in the whole suite she’s gifting to you. (Does it really count as a gift, though, when you can feel the marionette strings attached to it?)

“So what do you think?” The Handler asks. She sprawls on the bed and you almost want to join her.

“Do you ever do anything in half-measures?” You ask, wandering around the room. You deliberately avoid eye contact, fiddling with the knick-knacks she’s adorned the room in to make it look like a person lives here. The effect is more uncanny valley than anything.

“I don’t tend to, no.”

You roll your eyes and grin despite yourself.

“You have to give me something, darling,” The Handler says, “I may be amazing in all respects, but I’m regretfully not a mind reader.”

You finally turn to look at her. “What?” You say with a deliberately blank face, “You don’t think you did a good job? You should have more faith in your work.”

Her eyebrow twitches, so minute you almost don’t see it. You have to stop yourself from dropping the facade.

“You’re quite a little brat,” she comments.

You grin, tongue in cheek.

“Would you like to discuss your next order?”

The Handler smooths her face and lifts herself off the bed.

“In fact I would, I sense a promotion in my future…”

In the end, you’re not quite sure what kind of promotion she could wear this creation to; it’s more suited to a masquerade than a stuffy office meeting. But that assumes the Handler works an office job. You doubt that idea more and more every day.

“When can you get it done by?”

This is the first time she’s actually asked rather than giving you an ultimatum. Progress, you think to yourself.

“Two weeks at the earliest,” you answer. For anyone else you would say a month.

She smiles, satisfied. You close up your sketchbook and start packing everything away. The Handler already has some fabric in mind, thankfully. Your mind starts running through your schedule for the next few weeks. It’ll be tight, but you can do it.

“I do hope tonight was productive for you,” the Handler says, rising with you, “When do you expect to move in?”

“I won’t be moving in,” you remind her. She just looks at you with a plastered on smile and you can tell you won’t win this one. “I can start working here once I finish my last orders, it shouldn’t take that much longer.”

“I hope not,” the Handler says. She guides you toward the front door without you even asking, something you appreciate. You’re getting tired. “It gets lonely here with just me.”

You remember the parade of people she sent to pick up her custom orders. “I bet,” you say dryly. You wonder if she’ll ever tell you what she does for a living (and even more desperately, you hope she doesn’t).

You get to the entrance and she opens it for you, cool night air blowing in through the open door.

“Oh,” the Handler says and you turn towards her, “I almost forgot.”

She kisses you and, for a moment, you’re too shocked to breathe. She pulls away and looks at you. You try to say something, but your brain doesn’t seem to be working. Instead, you pull her closer.

Her hands entwine themselves in your hair, the scrape of sharp nails on the back of your neck. Her lips are warm and soft and you think maybe you’ve just been too lonely for too long, because you’re starting to feel like you’re going to cry.

Eventually, she pulls away. She doesn’t say anything, but her hands haven’t let you go. You can’t move your eyes away from hers.

“I don’t want to sleep with you tonight,” you blurt out.

“Tonight?” She asks, and you blush. “I hadn’t planned on it, my dear. But I’m glad to hear you’re planning for the future.”

Your face, somehow, burns ever hotter.

“I should probably go,” you speak.

As if it causes physical pain, she unwinds herself from you.

“Probably,” she comments, “Or else I’d be tempted to keep you here.”

You swallow and think about eating your words. You take a deep breath and take a step outside. Her eyes watch you.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say.

The Handler smiles. “Ta-ta, darling.”

You get into your car and back carefully out of the driveway. About the time you hit the main road hysterical laughter bubbles up in your throat.

Ah, sweet sweet self-destructive tendencies.

Back to your old habits, you think. There’s no way this ends well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for so long, I've been a bit busy with school/work. 
> 
> Also!!! I got my own Vanya :-) I'm finally living my Waitress dream


	4. Linen

The sun starts going down earlier and by the time you realize, you’re nearly to December. You find it a little harder to get up every day; the monotony taking its toll on you. It’s not that you don’t like winter. You love the cold and the snow and the lights in the city. But every year seems a little harder than the last, and every year your apartment feels a little bit emptier.

And every year you miss your mother a little bit more.

You push away the deep well of grief that thought opens and open the nearly empty storefront. The bell rings behind you.

The Handler hasn’t put any more orders in since her champagne-colored monstrosity. (She must still be taking pity on you, thank God). The only reason you’re even still coming in to the shop is because you have the rest of your Christmas stockpile from last year to sell. You haven’t bothered to add anything new. You’re hopeful you can sell everything before shutting down.

Not that you know when that’ll happen.

It’s not that you’re having second thoughts, exactly. (Even though, you have your doubts as to how this will work). Despite your gut feeling about the woman, you do like the Handler. You get the feeling most people like her, until it’s too late. Does that mean you think it’s a good idea to nearly move into her house? No. She may be stunning and wicked in all the ways you’re drawn to, but if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s that you tend to make poor decisions.

Then again, $20,000 a month can fuel a lot of daydreams. Perhaps even make your dreams a reality.

You remember when you were young your mom bought you a lottery ticket, just for fun. It was before you really understood what money was, what a lack of it did to someone. You had asked your mom what she would do with it, and she had just smiled. “Stay home with you, of course,” she had said.

You had thought that was dumb. You would at least get a swimming pool.

You would give anything to spend another day at home with her.

Moments pass, and you realize you haven’t sewn anything. You continue stitching buttons into the thick wool of a winter coat. Your hands tremble.

Snow starts falling outside your doorstep, accumulating in the rafters.

Maybe with the Handler’s money, you think, you could leave this city and all the memories that haunt you; go to Europe. Italy is always nice this time of year. Or, so you hear. Maybe France. Drink too much wine and make new friends in a country where no one knows you. You prick your finger on accident.

“Hmph!” You hold your finger until it stops bleeding. Yeah, maybe hand stitching isn’t the time to be daydreaming.

The doorbell chimes as someone comes in.

“Hello! What can I… do for you today?”

Not many men come into your shop, but the ones that do are generally very pleasant. But this is… a teenager.

The boy smiles without teeth, vaguely threatening. Well, for a child. “Oh,” he says, “Just browsing.”

He wanders the store with his hands clasped behind his back and you keep an eye on him. It’s not that you don’t like children, it’s just that… well, you’re not fond of them. You never quite got the grasp on how to interact with them. (You seem to have been born without a mothering instinct).

In loss of anything to say, you keep quiet and let the boy wander around your shop. Hopefully he doesn’t steal anything. It would be odd for a teenage boy to steal your particular style of fashion, but you’ve seen weirder things.

The doorbell chimes again.

“Hello! Wh- You’re back already?”

“No need to sound so excited,” The Handler says dryly. Her attention turns to the boy wandering the perimeter of your shop. “Fancy seeing you here, Five.”

You blink. Of course they know each other. Why wouldn’t they.

Why is your life this weird?

“Nice to see you too, Handler,” he says, “You know, I was wondering why you kept coming back here. It certainly wasn’t for the overpriced aprons.”

Rude.

“And what conclusion did you come to?” The Handler asks pleasantly.

He grins waspishly. “I came to the conclusion that while it’s not like you to fall for the first pretty face who has no idea what you are, it is very ironic.” The heat that rises in your face must be incidental.

“Careful, Five,” she warns, “She’s too young for you.”

Um.

“You’re one to talk,” he retorts, “How old are you again?”

The Handler clears her throat primly. “It’s rude to ask a woman’s age, Five.”

“You’re not a woman, you’re a demon,” he snarls.

“Okay! So, I don’t know what the issue is with you two,” you interrupt, “But if you guys could take it literally anywhere else, that would be great.”

Five turns his attention to you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he comments.

“… And what were you expecting?”

“Someone less boring.”

Ouch. Or at least that would hurt if it came from an adult you respected and not this weird kid. You wonder if you could get away with leaving and hiding in the back room until the two of them finish their little spat.

“Be polite, Five,” the Handler warns, “Some of us crave a little normalcy.”

“ _You_ don’t.”

“And you do? How’s playing house with your family? Just as unfulfilling as I predicted?” The Handler smiles pleasantly as Five scowls.

“Don’t bring my family into this.”

“Oh darling, they’ve been in this from the start. Otherwise, what is it you’re fighting for again?”

Five’s fists are clenched at his sides.

“Just admit it, Five,” the Handler says as she circles him, “You don’t know who you are without the Apocalypse.”

UM.

“Okay!” You say, clapping your hands together, “If neither of you are going to buy anything, get out.”

The Handler turns her attention to you.

“Surely you don’t mean me,” she says. You feel like shrinking as she invades your personal space, but you refuse to back down.

“I absolutely do,” you shoot back, “No fighting in my store. I didn’t think that was something that needed to be said!”

“She has a backbone after all,” Five comments, “What a surprise.”

“And you! Can I help you?” You demand. He’s leaning up against your display, arms crossed.

“Not particularly,” he says, “I just wanted to pop in.” His lips curl like he just told a joke.

“Well pop back out,” the Handler says pleasantly, “I can’t imagine anything here concerns you.”

His jaw tenses. “Everything you do concerns me.”

“Well, I recommend you stop before I’m tempted to forget about our deal.”

He bares his teeth in a threatening smile.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I was just leaving.”

The bell chimes behind him as he evacuates your little shop. You’re silent for a moment.

“So,” you say, “Do you want to explain what that was all about?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Let’s try that again,” you say, “Explain or I will never sew anything for you ever again.”

“Is that an ultimatum I detect?”

“Picked up on that, did you?”

The Handler’s eyes glitter. “Careful, dear, you don’t want to upset me.”

A chill runs up your spine. “Maybe so,” you say carefully, “But I can’t do business with someone I can’t trust.”

“Darling,” she purrs, “I’m hurt, I thought we were more than just business.” She brushes her fingers on the side of your face and you jerk backwards, wrenching her wrists away from you.

“That doesn’t mean I’m okay with you blatantly threatening violence towards my customers!”

“So if I was less obvious, it would be okay? ’Plausible deniability’, is that what you called it?” She cocks her head to the side and you grind your teeth.

“Don’t use my words against me,” you snap, “Of course it wouldn’t be okay.”

“You seem to forget who you’re talking to,” she comments, backing you up against the wall. You’re still holding her wrists, but it somehow doesn’t make you feel any safer. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ve figured out I’m not someone to get on your bad side. Now, I’ve let your little comments slide because I like you. Don’t push me too far, or else you’ll discover exactly why my presence makes makes you nervous. You should’ve listened to your instincts, dearest.”

You swallow, lips tightly pursed. You finally push her hands away and her lips curl up in a predatory kind of smile.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re afraid of me.” She tilts her head to the side. Her expression wars between satisfaction and disappointment.

You bite your bottom lip subconsciously. “Do you blame me?” You ask quietly.

It’s her turn to be silent. “No,” she says eventually, “I suppose I don’t.” she looks at you, calculating, for a long while. You squirm under her inspection.

“I should be going,” she says in clipped words, “Things to do, people to kill.”

It’s only after she’s left and you’re alone in your store that you realize she never said what she came here for. Fuck, it occurs to you, you’ve almost definitely driven off your chance of getting out of this hell-hole. Your heart sinks.

The phone rings.

You pick it up and you’re struck with the absurd idea it’s her. You have to stop an apology from bursting out your throat.

“Hi! I was wondering if you were open for future orders?”

Your heart lowers even further. It’s not her. Of course it’s not her.

You’re about to politely decline, but you think better of it. The Handler’s not coming back. There’s a part of you that still thinks she will; she’ll swoop in the door and act like nothing ever happened and the two of you can go back to your weird, stilted relationship.

But that’s not going to happen. “Of course,” you say through a plastered on smile, “What did you have in mind?”

Disappointment, you think, is the only thing that comes of day dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all my fellow americans :)
> 
> Also if you see me working through my issues in my writing, mind your business


	5. Damask

You almost get back to normal in the following weeks. You build up your client list again. With the Handler out of the picture, you have time to finish all your orders and even snatch a few hours of sleep. You still feel odd.

It’s not that you miss her. (Even though you do miss the idea of twenty-fucking-thousand dollars a month). Going back to your old routine after being exposed to something different makes everything seem… disappointing. You stifle the feeling. You try to remember to be satisfied with what you have, a return to the values your mother instilled in you.

You don’t need the Handler, you remind yourself.

Sometimes, it’s hard to remember.

You go through the motions for weeks on end. If it weren’t for the shop, you’d have no idea what day it was. As it is, you barely do. For the first week after the Handler has abandoned you, you’re in a rush churning out more Christmas Pinafore dresses than you’d care to count. As your shop window fills, more people come in, and you almost start feeling normal again. Normal, you come to understand, doesn’t always mean good.

You’re just so tired. Sewing, the one thing that has always grounded you, has started to become a drain. The endless cycle, day in day out, exhausts you. You lay in bed for hours and still wake up with a bone deep weariness. You wonder if it’ll ever fade. You’re beginning to doubt it. Your eyes close without you knowing. Sleep, perchance to dream.

You snort. Sleep, perchance to fucking sleep.

The radio on your kitchen counter sings nothing but Christmas music, and you do your best to ignore the upcoming holidays. Your planner tells you that you have a silk robe you need to finish for next week, and three cotton day dresses after that. Wistfully, you think of all the fabric sitting in the Handler’s studio for you. You wonder what she’ll do with it now. Probably donate it. Or burn it.

You’re an idiot, you remind yourself.

You’re well aware.

By the time you remember to eat, the sky is almost dark. One of your least favorite things about winter in the Northern Hemisphere is how early the sun sets. Your eyes squint in the yellow overhead lighting and realize you can barely see your needle. You persevere until colorful spots take over your vision and you have to put down your work to rub your eyes. It doesn’t make you feel better.

Groaning, you go into your kitchen and pour yourself another glass of wine. It tastes like vinegar, but it’s better than nothing. You make vague plans of turning in for the night and leaving the living room-turned-workroom a mess. That seems like a problem for tomorrow. You’re halfway through making mac and cheese from a box when there’s a knock on your door.

You pause. No one ever comes to visit you. As far as you can remember, you haven’t ordered anything recently.

Whoever’s at your door knocks again.

You turn off the burner and go to the door. There’s no peephole for you to look through, an oversight by whoever built this shitty apartment. You open the door a crack.

“Hello, dear,” the Handler says.

Your face tightens.

“What are you doing here?” You don’t open the door for her.

The Handler looks both ways down the hallway of your apartment complex before looking back at you. You want to laugh at her for acting like a movie villain before remembering that she probably is one.

“Could I come in?” She requests.

You want to laugh in her face, but instead you sigh. “Come in,” you say, moving out of the doorway for her. She smiles and your jaw tightens. You close the door after her, but don’t lock it. She’s wearing one of your organza designs. If it were anyone else, you would accept it as appeasing gesture. From the Handler, it reads as mocking.

“So, want to explain?”

The Handler looks at you, amused, before examining your small apartment. Your cheap finishings and messy living style can’t hold up to her scrutiny. Heat rises in your face.

“Sorry for barging in like this,” she apologizes, full of faux-sincerity, “I see you weren’t expecting guests.”

You flush with irritation and you’re suddenly aware of your messy hair and thin pajamas. Acute anger pierces through you. You cross your arms in front of your chest.

“I guess calling is too much to ask from you.”

“I would have if I thought you would answer.”

You don’t have a sharp retort for that. Unfortunate. You sigh and lean against the wall of your entryway. You wonder if the Handler has ever managed to be straightforward in her life.

You doubt it.

You’re suddenly exhausted. You press your palms into your eyes as if to clear your vision.

“What do you want, Handler?” When your vision clears you see her looking at you, uncertainty strewn on her face.

“I…” She starts and trails off. You blink. You’ve never seen the Handler like this. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen in shock. You didn't expect the Handler to show up at your apartment today, but you definitely didn’t have her apologizing to you on your bingo card. You don’t have a response. The Handler pretends to wander around your apartment like she’s trying to avoid your gaze.

Eventually, she cracks.

Her forehead creases. “Are you not going to say anything?”

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit.

She turns to you at that, a flicker of irritation crossing her face before she has a chance to hide it.

“I don’t usually apologize to people,” she says waspishly.

“Yes,” you say dryly, “I can see that.”

Her expression turns stormy and she’s halfway to a tirade when you decide to put her out of her misery.

“I accept your apology,” you say, “You’re forgiven, Handler.”

You’re not sure if it’s true or not, but you realize that you missed her. You’re less angry now that she’s here. Less angry now that you spent two weeks away from her, stewing in your own misery. If verbally accepting her hesitant apology will bring her back into your life, you’re prepared to make that sacrifice. (Whether that makes you an idiot or not, time will tell).

Her anger clears.

“Well,” she says primly, “I’m glad.”

“Would you like some wine?”

the Handler opens her mouth like she’s about to refuse before realizing she shouldn’t reject an olive branch when she’s already on thin ice. Even when that olive branch was $7 at the grocery store.

You’d be embarrassed if you cared.

“Yes,” she says, “Please.”

Your kitchen is currently one of the only rooms not covered in thread and fabric, but you still have to clear off your small dining table for the two of you.

“I’d apologize for the mess, but you didn’t give me much notice.”

“I’ve endured worse.”

You hand her a glass of wine and sit across from her. It tastes better now that you’re not alone. Your mac and cheese sits forgotten on the stove. The two of you sit in silence.

“I didn’t intend for you to get caught up in this side of my life,” the Handler eventually admits.

You smile wryly. “I could tell.”

“I understand if you don’t want to do business with me anymore.”

You don’t say anything, just look at this subdued woman you barely recognize. She’s uncomfortable in this role, you can tell. More used to demanding and receiving than the uncertainty of being wrong.

“Handler,” you ask, “Why are you here?”

Her forehead creases, the fine lines between her eyebrows deepening, “I already told you, I came to apologize.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say simply, “You could’ve found another seamstress. I have the number of a good one a block over.”

You can tell she’s irritated you’re not making this easy for her. Good, you think, she deserves a little suffering after the bullshit she’s put you through. No one’s ever said you’re not petty. You take a sip from your glass and lean back.

“None like you,” she says, and there’s a light in her eye, “I can’t explain much about my life, but—”

You cut her off. “I don’t want to know. Plausible deniability, right?”

The Handler slowly nods and you’re struck with the odd feeling that you have the upper hand for once. You finish your wine and interlace your fingers

“I want a contract,” You say lightly, “To ensure you can’t break our deal and leave me destitute.” So you don’t abandon me, is what you don’t say.

She eyes you like she’s never quite seen you before. “Done,” she says, “Anything you want. I’ll have one drawn up in the morning.”

She says it lightly, but you can tell she means it. You slide her glass away from her.

“And,” you say, pressing yourself closer, “I want you to take me to my bedroom and make it up to me.”

The light in her eyes bursts into a flame. The Handler makes no effort to tease like you expected her to. Instead, she pulls you in and presses kiss after kiss onto your lips until you feel them start to ache. Her hands cradle your face as she takes her time with you. You want to melt in the warmth of her attention. You refuse to give her that power, not yet. She’s more giving than you expected; more giving than the demanding, shameless woman you’re used to.

She pulls away and you catch your breath. “You said something about a bedroom,” she says and you grin.

It’s been a very long time since you’ve wanted anything, but you can feel the heat of your desire for the Handler beginning to break through the long winter’s frost you’ve been encased in. Your hands are trembling when it comes time to undress her. You pull the zipper down the dress you created and it spills into a pile of organza on the floor.

“Do you always wear these or were you just hopeful?” You ask, eyeing her soft lace set. She just laughs, which tells you that you’re more predictable than you thought.

She pulls your worn t-shirt over your head and dips down to press a line of open-mouthed kisses to your sternum, tracing her way down to your navel. Your head falls back, breathing heavy. You wish you had worn nice underwear.

Too late, you guess.

You jolt as her tongue darts out to lick at the sensitive place near the crevice of your hip.

“Handler,” you rasp. Her fingers hook themselves under the waistband of your pants.

“Let me, please,” she says. You don’t think you’ve ever heard the Handler say the world ‘please’ before. You nod, mouth dry. You couldn’t say anything else. She grins and pulls the soft material down until you’re left only in your underwear. She presses another kiss, tantalizingly close to where you want it most. You gasp and have to stop yourself from dragging her down for more.

Always more.

It’s when she digs her nails into your high and inhales deeply. You haven’t felt this greedy for someone in your entire life.

You pull her up by her hair. You take pleasure in messing up the expertly coiffed updo. (You think maybe that’s your pettiness taking over again). Stray hairs fall around her face and you brush them out of her eyes. She kisses you so roughly you feel your lips bruise. You revel in the ache.

You try to unhook her bra and she pushes you away.

“This is about you, dearest,” she says with a winning smile. You’d be suspicious if you were capable of rational thought right now. You allow her to push you back against the bed. Soft moans escape you as she descends. She presses kiss after kiss into your skin, sucks bruises on the underside of your breasts. You pant, wild. Your spine arches, hair spilled on your pillow. You can only imagine the frantic look in your eyes, a reflection of the Handler’s own desire.

You had thought that after the two of you succumbed to whatever weird tension you had, the illusion would be broken. No one ever measures up to your expectations, no one ever measures up to what you truly want. But now… All you can feel is your increasing desire to tear the Handler apart and make a nest for yourself in her bones. Possessiveness floods you, stronger than anything you’ve ever felt before. Who is this woman, you wonder, to make you feel this way?

Almost like she heard you, The Handler presses the flat of her tongue against your clit through the thin cotton of your underwear. You’re so wet the fabric is sticking to you. The Handler wraps her arms under your thighs, spreading you open for her. You resist the urge to tug her hair as her mouth works you over in rolling waves of desire.

“Handler,” you beg, toes curling, “I need more.”

You’re almost afraid you sound too needy, that this possessiveness is one-sided, but the Handler’s reaction reassures you. She pulls away, teeth sharp in her grin. You tear down your underwear. The Handler pounces on you, pressing your legs open so wide you feel the strain in your hips. You have the feeling you’ve lost control of this encounter. (If you ever had it). She feels so good, almost too good. But then she slips two manicured fingers in your dripping cunt and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Oh my _God_ ,” you groan. But two fingers only exacerbate your increasing desire to be filled. You want more. “I wish you could fuck me,” you sigh. The Handler moans against your clit before she pulls away.

“Next time,” she promises, voice husky. She buries her head back between your legs, fingers rubbing harder on the underside of your public bone. But it’s when she sucks softly on your clit that you come, whine sharp in your throat. You relax against the shitty mattress, but she doesn’t stop.

“Handler—” You try to pull away, but she keeps you pinned to the mattress, your thighs locked in an iron grip. You’re too sensitive. The edge of painful. You twist and turn, but you can’t escape from her mouth. “Handler,” you sob, “Please, it’s too much.”

You hear her laugh, feel it against your cunt.

She’s even crueler than you imagine. She doesn’t stop until you’re coming on your fingers again. She only pulls away when you’re trembling, voice hoarse.

“So,” she says, far too collected when you’re still struggling to think, “Am I forgiven?”

“Yes—” You gasp, “Yes, you’re forgiven. Jesus Christ.”

She hums. “Not quite, dear.” she traces her fingers along your waist and your muscles spasm.

“Unkind,” you groan and she just laughs. She’s still wearing her under things. You’d almost feel embarrassed if she hadn’t just forced you to come twice with her mouth alone. You pull her into a kiss and you can taste yourself.

“Please let me touch you,” you say.

She tilts her head, hand winding through your hair. You shiver at the feeling before she jerks your head back roughly. You moan.

“What makes you think you deserve that?” She asks, lips at your neck. You inhale sharply.

“Please,” you can only whisper.

It must be enough, because the Handler smiles and reaches behind her to unhook her bra. She lets you pull her into your lap, tracing kisses on her collarbone.

“You’re perfect,” you blurt out.

She grins. “Oh I know, darling.” She slips the lace scraps of her underwear down until you’re both bare, laying in your apartment bed. You think of the sturdy oak bed and silk sheets the Handler bought you in her house. You have a sudden almost blinding imagine of you fucking the Handler in her own bedroom until she thinks of you every time she tries to sleep.

You could become obsessed with this woman, if she let you.

She grinds her hips into yours, head tilted back until loud moans slip out. You press her lower back in slow rolling motions until she’s grinding with abandon against your thighs. You were right, before. She is shameless. The light catches on her throat, on her teeth as she grins. You kiss your way down her neck, and she tilts to give you more access. When you bite at the juncture of her neck, she makes a wanting, broken sound that you never would’ve expected her to make. You must have laughed or made some other sound of amusement because the Handler jerks your head back by your hair.

“Funny, is it?” She asks, an edge in her voice.

You’re too dizzy with arousal to keep the grin off your face. “Kind of.”

She pushes you roughly back against the mattress. Your head spins as she straddles your body, hovering above your waist.

“Well then,” she says primly, “If you’re going to mouth off, you may as well put it to good use.” She settles on your face and your arms come up automatically to wrap around her thighs. She grinds slowly against the flat of your tongue. You can barely breathe, but it’s so worth it.

“So good for me, aren’t you?” She coos and you groan.

Yeah, you think, you definitely lost control of this. You were ridiculous to think you could restrain the Handler in the first place. Well, no one can say you’re not ambitious.

The Handler rides your face like she owns it, and you suppose, in a way, she does. You keep your tongue moving on her clit until you hear her breath catch and feel her pulse over your face. She slows to gentle grind before pulling away, falling gracefully to the bed beside you.

“Well,” you say, voice ragged, “That was unexpected.”

The Handler just laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this sex scene was... unexpected. Ah well 😳  
> (Also yay! You guys finally got to the Explicit portion of this fic :-) )


	6. Velvet

You wake up next to the Handler in your own bed. Light streams in through your thin curtains. It’s been a very long time since you’ve slept with anyone, even longer since you’ve woken up next to another person. Though, you muse as you trace the soft line of her lips, the gold in her hair, you can’t imagine having your relapse with anyone else.

Like she can hear your thoughts, her eyes open.

“Hi.” Your voice is croaky from lack of use.

“Hello, dear,” she breathes, “Sleep well?”

You curl yourself around her. “I slept wonderfully,” you murmur against her skin. She shifts to accommodate you, hand draping over your waist. Part of you wants to rock into her until you continue what you were doing for most of the night. Ultimately, you decide against it.

“I hope you know I want’t kidding about the contract,” you tack on.

She laughs and you feel it reverberate in her sternum.

“I suspected as much,” she says dryly. Her hand weaves itself into your hair and tugs your head back so you have to look at her. You swallow at the action. She eyes you critically, gaze dancing over your face before settling on your eyes. “And I hope you know I own’t ever abandon you.” You avoid her gaze.

“I know,” you lie. She lets you lay your head back on her chest and she clucks her tongue.

“Oh my darling…” The Handler pets your hair and your eyes burn. She doesn’t say anything else. You’re grateful beyond belief. Fragility sinks its claws into you. When you’ve recovered enough, you lift your head.

“So, what now?” You ask.

The Handler doesn’t stop petting your hair.

“Come spend the holidays with me.”

It sounds less like a question and more like an order.

“I still have the store to think about,” you interject, “I started taking orders after…”

The Handler’s face falls into a wry smile. “After I lost my temper?”

“… Yes.”

“I’ll try my best not to repeat that particular mistake,” she muses, “You’re far too precious to me.”

Your face burns.

“You can’t say things like that,” you protest. You’re halfhearted at best.

“Why not?”

You don’t answer— not because you don’t know, but because it’s too embarrassing. Your eyes trail down. Your thin sheets are draped over her just high enough to cover her chest. The Handler notices.

“Really?” She asks, amused, “You’re not still tired from last night?”

You flush. You want to deny it and sink your nails into her, but you’re still sore. Your hand flexes around her wrist.

“You’re right,” you sigh, “We shouldn’t.”

The Handler just laughs.

It’s odd, getting ready with the Handler. You’ve never seen her anything less than put together. Watching her brush smudged mascara from under her eyes with messy hair is more attractive than it has any right to be.

“Come over tonight,” she says, “And stay.”

You know she doesn’t just mean the night. Maybe your willpower has finally crumbled, because you give in. “Okay,” you acquiesce, “I will.” The Handler’s lips twist into a triumphant kind of smile.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she says. She presses a kiss onto your lips. “I’ll see you tonight.” She leaves and you’re left in the aftermath of a dream, standing in the middle of your apartment.

You use the day to get yourself ready. You use the last of a sugar scrub and wash your hair. The Handler has officially seen you at your least-presentable, so you know she likes you no matter what. But a part of you wants to show her that you’re more than that.

Ah, good old inferiority complex. Oh how you missed that.

You even end up putting on makeup. You smudge black around your eyelashes and dab nearly invisible lipstick on. The effect is something you haven’t seen in years. You pack up your clothes and toiletries in a tote bag and leave them by the front door.

You finish the robe that’s next on your to-do list and even get started on one of the cotton dresses. The fabric is soft beneath your fingers. You wast the whole day in thread and fabric and scraps of ribbon before it’s acceptably late enough to drive to the Handler’s. (You don’t want to appear over-eager, you tell yourself. You don’t quite believe you). You pack your over-stuffed bag in the trunk and make sure to empty your garbage before you leave.

The Handler greets you at the door and she blinks.

“You look delicious,” she comments, wide grin taking over her face. You try to tamp down that unidentifiable feeling that bubbles up in your chest.

“I can look nice,” you say dryly. She shuts the door after you and you hang your coat on the rack.

“I never doubted it for a second, dearest. I’ve had dinner prepared for us.”

Knowing the Handler, that meant she had someone make it for her.

She leads you to a dining room you haven’t seen yet.

“How big is this house?”You ask. Your voice must contain some kind of reproach because the handler laughs.

“Too big,” she says in amusement, “For one person, at least.”

“I think my entire apartment complex could live here and never see each other.”

“That might be a stretch,” the Handler comments, “There’s only 6 bathrooms.”

You snort and sit down. Your earlier premonition comes true and someone you can only assume is a chef comes through the side door.

“Excellent,” the Handler says, “Henrick, you’re just on time.” He gives her a strange smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s good to know that the Handler makes other people nervous as well. (Too little, too late, you tell yourself).

“Of course, Ms. Handler.”

His eyes catch on you before he makes himself look away. You sense you’re going to be featured in gossip surrounding the Handler. Henrick steadfastly ignores your sh e sets out two plates. He announces a name you can’t begin to recognize. It’s some kind of fish with lemon sauce and you realize you haven’t eaten much today. He also pours two glasses of a dark red wine.

“Thank you so much, Henrick,” the Handler says with a faux warmth, “Feel free to take the rest of the evening off.”

You think that’s the politest ‘get out of my house’ you’ve ever heard. You hide a smile behind a wine glass. The Handler sits smoothly in her seat and you have a moment where you order ho the hell you got here. You tend to make bad decisions, but it’s been so long since you’ve had a good one like this. The heated look the Handler sends you definitely counts as a bad decision. Slowly, you pick up your cutler and take a bite.

“This is wonderful,” you say, only half-surprised.

The handler hums. “It should be, I pay him an inordinate amount.”

“Do you actually pay him or do you just blackmail him?”

Her lips curve.

“You’re learning,” she says and it doesn’t sound like a compliment. You smile and keep eating. You get halfway through the meal when the wine hits you.

“So how is this going to work?” You ask.

“How is what going to work?” Your hand tenses on your fork. You can tell by the flippant edge of her smile she’s torturing you on purpose.

“Our…” You taste the word and find it lacking. You say it anyway. “Relationship.” The Handler’s lips curl.

“What makes you think we have a relationship?”

Her words burn and you drink wine to wash it down. “You know what I mean,” you say.

Her eyebrows quirk. “Do I?”

“You are needlessly irritating.”

“And you’re getting braver,” the Handler comments, “I like it.”

Something hot burns through you. You don’t know what to say so you drain the rest of your wine instead. The Handler pulls out a parcel of paper. You glance at it, curious.

“This is the contract you requested,” she says, “I’ll give you time to read it over, of course.”

You shouldn’t be shocked that the Handler stuck to her word, but you are.

“There aren’t any trick clauses that give you possession of my soul or anything, are there?” You ask dryly.

The Handler grins.

“No, my dear,” she says, “I like you whole.” Her eyes trace down your body and you burn.

“I feel like we should set some boundaries on this,” you eventually say.

“Why would we do that?”

“So this thing doesn’t bite us in the ass,” you say instead of any of your other valid arguments. The Handler looks more amused than anything else.

“Alright,” she placates, swirling her wine in her glass, “What kind of boundaries were you thinking?”

“I can’t live here.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Handler—”

“Living here would cut down on your commute, would it not?”

She has a point.

“Fine,” you say, “I’ll live here during the week. I want days off.”

“Naturally,” she says airily, “Whatever days you wish.”

You think for a moment. “Let’s say the weekend, just to keep it simple.”

The Handler inclines her head. “Agreed.”

“And I mean it,” you warn, “I want two full days off. That means no sewing, no orders, no sex.”

The Handler’s expression dips before righting itself.

“Fine,” she says, “I want you to join me for dinner every night.” She must see something in your face because she continues. “Just dinner,” she says dryly, “I can be nice.”

“I haven’t seen proof of that yet.”

“You saw proof at least six times last night, if I recall correctly.”

You flush and concede to the Handler’s point.

“I’ll join you for dinner, but we have to sleep in separate rooms.”

“Every night?”

“Okay,” you acknowledge, “You can have one night a week.”

The Handler’s grin draws so wide you’re certain you’ve made a mistake.

“Any other stipulations?” She asks and you’re sure there are, but your mind is drawing a blank.

“No,” you eventually say, “That’s it.”

The Handler smiles like the cat that got the cream and the canary and you get that vague sense of vertigo the Handler inspires in you.

“Come over here.”

Hesitantly, you get up from your chair. The Handler beckons you closer, the pull of her presence too much for you to resist. She takes your wrists and tugs you off balance. You fall into her lap, her hand atyour lower back pressing you up against her. You place your palms against her shoulders for balance and she forces you to look into her glittering eyes.

“What am I going to do with you?” She murmurs.

You can think of a lot of things you’d like her to do to you. Unconsciously, you start to grind your hips in small circles. The Handler grins.

“That’s what I thought.” You flush and she presses hard kisses onto your neck. Your head tilts back and you stare at the crown moulding. Her arms encircle you, but you feel comforted instead of trapped. You’re not sure how you ended up here, with the Handler. You don’t know how long this will last, but a traitorous part of your brain thinks that you’ll deal with whatever consequences come of this as long as you get to have her for whatever amount of time she lets you.

You clench and realize that you’re starving.

“Handler,” you rasp, voice raw, “Bedroom.”

The Handler practically drags you out of the dining room, meal left unfinished. She kisses you and you taste wine. She doesn’t take you to your room, but leads you by the hand to yours. You’re too distracted to wonder why until she pulls a black harness out of your dresser drawer.

“Oh my god,” you say, “Did you hide a strap on in my room?”

“So it is your room now?” The Handler says, amused, “I thought you didn’t want to live with me.”

You flush, but refuse to be sidetracked. “What else do you have in here?”

The Handler just grins.

She pushes you to the bed with a manicured hand and you swallow. She presses you down, hand gently tracing up to the hollow of your neck. You must have some expression, give something away, because her expression sharpens into a triumphant grin.

“I thought so,” she hums. You’re about to say something when she wraps her hand around your throat and squeezes.

The moan that comes out of you is louder than any moan has the right to be, so loud that you clamp your hand over your mouth to stifle it. The Handler rips it away.

“Now, now,” she says, “I want to hear you.”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Better,” she smiles. She releases you for a moment and you tug her closer. Your hands cradle her face as you bring her in for a kiss. You so badly want to get her out of her dress, you would tear it to pieces if you weren’t the one who made it.

“Can I…” You trail off and your eyes drift downwards. “Can I eat you out?”

The Handler grins and pulls you in for a heated kiss. The Handler unzips her dress as you slide to your knees on the hardwood floor and move in-between her legs. You press open mouthed kisses on the thin fabric of her underwear, tasting her through lace. Your knees start to ache.

She grinds on your face and you slip two fingers through the band, tugging hem down to her knees. She steps out of them and you take the opportunity to spread her legs farther apart, bargaining for leverage. As with most things with the Handler, you only get what she gives you.

“Good girl,” she murmurs and a frisson of pleasure runs down your spine. You redouble your efforts.

When she finally pulls you away, your face is wet with her own arousal. She drags you up by your hair and kisses it off of you.

“Handler,” you rasp, “Please fuck me.” Her eyes dance over your face, examining you. You can only imagine the desperation written there. (You’ve been wet since before you stepped foot in this house).

“Only if you beg for it.” You burn and a whine slips out. You pull her closer, but her mouth remains out of reach. You kiss her jawline. Her muscles curve into a smile.

“Please,” you say desperately, “I’ll do anything.”

She hums. “Dangerous thing to offer to someone like me.” She tilts her head down to look at you, pulling you back by your hair. Her eyes examine you.

“I know,” you whisper.

The Handler’s grin is sharp.

“Get on the bed,” she murmurs into your ear. You scramble up on the mattress, duvet falling to the floor. You peel out of your clothes. You think the Handler’s eyes darken when she catches sight of the lace bra you put on before you came. (You hide a smile, your efforts are paying off). She puts the harness on with an efficiency that sparks something you— the slight burn of anticipation. Your eyes dip down to peer at the plain black dildo she’s wearing. The thickness makes you clench.

“Edge of the mattress for me, darling,” she says and you mindlessly obey. You’d be more in the mood to push he Handler’s boundaries if you didn’t want to come so badly.

“Handler,” you say, a drawn out reproach. Her hips grind into empty air. You feel your wetness drying on your thighs.

“I think you’re forgetting your manners,” the Handler says, “Why don’t you put on a show for me?”

Your face burns and you hesitate. You have a moment of self-awareness of how you must look right now.

“I—”

“Do it for me.”

Your fingers twitch, but trail down your stomach to rub at your neglected clit. The Handler has barely touched you and you’re unsettlingly aroused. You dip inside to collect the wetness there and go back to your clit, rubbing in furious circles so slick you can pretend it’s someone’s tongue. The Handler grows closer and you grin, hiding your smile in your hair.

You’d try to hide your desperation if you didn’t suspect that the Handler liked it. She watches you through blown pupils as you toss your head back to ride your own fingers. It’s not realistic, a show for the Handler’s benefit (and hopefully yours).

You’re on the verge of coming when the Handler pulls your hand away.

“Handler!” You cry. Your hips tilt of their own accord. Her lips curve.

“None of that,” she tuts, “I thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

“I would if I thought you’d get to it sometime this century.”

“I’ll make you regret that,” she comments.

You pulse. You’re about to retort when she rests the head of the dildo on your cunt and slides across your clit, reigniting the dying fire in your stomach. Your hips follow her.

“Handler,” you say, voice low, “Stop teasing me.”

“How rude,” she comments, “Am I just going to have to fuck some manners into you?”

Your response dies on your lips. She pushes inside in one long motion. She’s bigger than you expected (or perhaps it’s just been longer than you thought). You let out a choked out moan.

“ _Handler_.”

“Shh. Good girls don’t speak.”

Your teeth click shut.

The Handler pushes in you slowly, allowing you to get used to the stretch and pleasant burn. You’re grateful. When you’ve adjusted, you start to move your hips back into hers, cock hitting you deeper. You can’t stop the litany of moons that escape you; glad, at least, the Handler doesn’t count it as speaking.

“You’re taking me so well, aren’t you?” The Handler questions sweetly. A strangled whine escapes you and she takes you by the throat.

“I asked you a question.”

Her cock is slamming into you so quickly you can barely form a coherent thought.

“Yes!”

“Yes, what?”

Your brain stutters. “Yes, ma’am.”

The Handler grins. Her hand leaves your throat and you mourn the loss until she grips your was it and starts to fuck you harder, using you like a flashlight. The part of your brain that can still think is shocked by her strength.

“Handler—” You choke. The heat in your stomach burns hot.

The slick sound of her fucking you fills the room.

“Yes, darling?”

She doesn’t let up.

“I need to come,” you choke.

She tuts. “No you don’t,” she says smoothly, “I think you’re perfect just like this. The edge of desperation.”

“ _Please_.”

“You said I could have you however I wanted. This is what I want.”

You let out a loud whine and the Handler laughs.

“What?” She asks lightly, “Too much?”

“ _Yes_.”

“That’s too bad, isn’t it dear?”

You think the Handler is intent on fucking you to an early grave. That’s the only explanation for why she insists on torturing you. You try to reach down to touch yourself, but the Handler pins your wrists to the mattress.

“None of that,” she says, “I thought you wanted to be good for me.”

Desperate tears prick your eyes.

“Handler, please.”

“Hmm,” she hums, “Nice try. You can’t trick me with your doe eyes.” You twist in her grasp, trying to free your hands. The Handler is stronger than you. She stares at you with glittering amusement as a flurry of pleas and exclamations exit your lips. The coil in your stomach tights; you want to come so badly you think you might go insane if the Handler doesn’t let you.

Just when you think you might start crying, the Handler loosens her grip on your wrists and trails one hand up to wrap itself around your neck while the other circles your clit.

Within seconds, your eyes roll back and you shudder so hard the Handler slips out of you.

The Handler kisses as you recover.

“Looks like this is a good start to our partnership,” she says.

You flick your eyes over to her. “If you tell me you also have a vibrator hiding in that drawer you might actually kill me.”

The Handler just laughs.

Later, after you’re both satisfied several times over, you find yourself settled in one of the Handler’s living rooms you haven’t seen before. You nurse a Lemon Drop swamped in the feather duvet, stolen from your bed. The Handler is reading some book in a language you can’t begin to identify and you’re catching up on your hand stitching. Your hair is still damp from your shower with the Handler. The contract still sits forgotten in your room.

You feel a well of contentment rise in your chest and you can’t find it in you to regret this. (You were right, earlier, you know the consequences of this will hurt after this erupts).

You can deal with the pain as long as you can enjoy the present.

“What are you thinking about?” The Handler murmurs.

You smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day! I wish you all the discount chocolates you could wish for. 
> 
> Also, let me know in the comments if you guys have any kink/other requests for this fic. I swing wildly between ‘I want someone to come in me’ and ‘How do you have sex again?’ so I will take all the input I can get. 
> 
> Cheers B)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome back to: Emma writes incredibly niche fics about a minimum wage employee having a lesbian relationship with an Umbrella Academy character :-). Hope you like the chapter!
> 
> If you like my writing & wanna talk to me, I'm on tumblr @wickedlyemma


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